


If home is where the heart is then we're all just fucked

by ThatSeance



Series: If Home Is Where The Heart Is... [1]
Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Banter, Childhood Friends, F/M, Falling In Love, Fist Fights, Fluff and Angst, Gang Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kind of modern au but never explicitly stated, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Miscommunication, Requited Love, Retelling, Slow Burn, Swearing, Unrequited Love, cuter than the tags imply, they're all pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2020-10-17 00:37:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20612027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSeance/pseuds/ThatSeance
Summary: Here's the issue: Mercutio has known Romeo since he was young, and the discovery that he wasn’t walking a very straight path came concurrently with his discovery that Romeo’s cocky smile and kind eyes and bony fingers sent his stomach swirling, which was something that very much did not happen with other guys, much less girls.Or, how a trio of friends becomes something else, with the help of unrequited love and mysterious outside influences that seem to be terrorizing Verona. Mercutio finds himself to be in the center of it all.





	1. Act 1

**Author's Note:**

> I feel as if this is such a niche fic in an already niche fandom, but the inspiration hit and I felt a strong need to write this. It's mostly a retelling of actual Romeo & Juliet but with a significant amount of Canon divergence. Un-beta'd, so apologies if there are any glaring mistakes or issues! I hope you enjoy, and please comment or give kudos!

There’s something awful about watching Benvolio stumble into his room, half exhausted, collapsing as soon as he reaches the chair, his fingers clenching around his shirt near his side. There’s the beginnings of a bruise forming around his eye and he seems to be walking with a hesitant limp. Mercutio isn’t sure when he became the friend that everyone comes to when they’re in trouble, because he isn’t suited for giving advice and rationalization; he instead flits around the room in worry, eyes searching for something that could help, even if he doesn’t know the cause of his friend’s collapse quite yet. Benvolio just huffs and tells him to sit down, and he tentatively places himself on the edge of the bed, bouncing his leg before bursting out, “What happened?”

Benvolio’s eyes travel to the wall and his face scrunches up, eyebrows drawn together and lips downturned. Silence stretches over the room for a few moments, heavy and suffocating in anticipation, before Benvolio sighs and says, in the flat tone Mercutio knows all too well, “I got in a fight.”

Mercutio’s eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes skim Benvolio’s expression for any trace of humor, but there’s nothing but grim acceptance and dread just around the creases of his mouth. Mouth dropping open, Mercutio leans back on the bed, landing with a soft ‘thump’. And really, no one should be able to blame him when his chest starts shaking and little fits of laughter slip out of his mouth, because as much as he was concerned, there was something beyond hilarious about Benvolio doing something that would otherwise be considered so Mercutio.

Benvolio scowls, and spits out, with a soft edge, “stop laughing”, but Mercutio is gone on a different plane, imagining Benvolio holding a sword and striking an imaginary opponent, which sends him rolling in laughter all the more. He giggles out a few ‘sorry’s but there’s nothing regretful about his tone, because he’s not really sorry. At least, until Benvolio interrupts him with, “It was Tybalt.”

Suddenly, the situation drains of humor, and Mercutio pulls himself up to really look at Benvolio, who’s chewing at his bottom lip. Mercutio shakes his head and says, “was it at least worth it?”

“He was fighting these kids,” Benvolio starts, and stops, before muttering, “Romeo’s parents were there.”

Mercutio winces. “Were they fighting too?”

“It was more a classic Montague versus Capulet situation.” Benvolio picks at the edge of his sleeve, and shrugs. “Your uncle was there too.”

That’s what makes Mercutio pause, and his shoulders shoot up as his posture stiffens. He laughs suddenly, dull and forced, and tries to stop himself from fidgeting with the chain around his neck. It doesn’t work. “He always seems to involve himself in these situations, huh?” Another laugh. “I still can’t believe you got into a fight. You, Benvolio, purveyor of peace and harmony and every gushy feeling a person could have-”

Benvolio laughs at that too, more genuinely, and the tension in the room simmers down as Mercutio continues to poke and prod at Benvolio’s gentle tendencies. There were still glances sent to the red puffiness of Benvolio’s eye and the grip his fingers still kept at his side, but Mercutio was determined to move the conversation along, because he still wasn’t good at advice and never would be, but he could suitably distract any man from pain with his quick wit and obvious charm. At least, until Benvolio shoots up, pretending not to wince as he spouts, “I forgot, the Capulet’s invited us to a party.”

Suddenly all the words leave Mercutio’s extensive vocabulary. He gapes, and blinks, and fumbles out, “They- what?”

“Some servant didn’t recognize us, and well, he just extended the invitation. So, well, Romeo was having one of his moments, and I may have suggested…” He trails off, suddenly glancing away from Mercutio, twisting the ring on his finger back and forth. 

Mercutio raises an eyebrow and urges Benvolio on, asking, “What did you suggest?”

“Well,” Benvolio starts, before sighing and looking back over Mercutio, both apologetic and hesitant, “I may have suggested he, uh, search out other girls at the party.”

Mercutio’s expression goes flat for a few moments before he smiles, no teeth and creases around the corners of his mouth. “Well, that’s good isn’t it? Get him out of his slump for a few days, maybe he’ll finally even meet a girl that won’t kill him after they-”

“You don’t have to do the self-sacrificial thing, Mercutio,” Benvolio whispers, looking far too pitying, “I already know.”

Biting his lip, Mercutio slumps into himself, and lets out a deep breath. He reaches up to his neck again and traces his fingers down the silver chain that felt warm from his body heat. Because here’s the issue that he has: Mercutio has known Romeo since he was young, and the discovery that he wasn’t walking a very straight path came concurrently with his discovery that Romeo’s cocky smile and kind eyes and bony fingers sent his stomach swirling, which was something that very much did not happen with other guys, much less girls. However, to Romeo’s benefit and Mercutio’s detriment, Romeo was unequivocally attracted to girls, which left him with vast expanses of prospects and Mercutio with a half-broken heart that he hid behind goofy smiles and extensive amounts of charm. The worst part was he couldn’t blame Romeo, because it’s not exactly his fault, right? Still, sometimes Mercutio has a hard time looking at him, especially when faced with Romeo’s tendency to swap spit with any girl he laid his eyes on. Benvolio caught on almost as soon as their duo become a trio, which Mercutio elected to forget, at least most of the time. It was times like this, when he became his most self-pitying and sorrowful self, that Benvolio’s awareness forced its ugly head back into Mercutio’s life. 

“I’ve always had to do that,” Mercutio whispers back, head ducked down towards the floor, “Just because it hurts doesn’t mean I shouldn’t.”

Benvolio sends him a look that’s so full of pity and solace and _something else_ that Mercutio almost can’t breathe. “It means you shouldn’t hold all that up inside.”

Mercutio shrugs, and pulls himself up, feeling the weight of the world still on his shoulders. He rolls his head and tries to empty his mind of any thoughts about what it would feel like if Romeo looked at him for more than a split second, if he didn’t spend so much time chasing after girls that would never give him the time of day. He can feel something heavy settle in his chest and he lets it stay there because there’s nothing else to be done. He rubs at his eyes a bit before saying, “Well, it’s what I do anyways. When’s the party?”

* * *

The answer he’d been expecting to receive was “this friday” or perhaps, “two weeks from now”, not, “in an hour, and Romeo was expecting us about five minutes ago”. 

Sometimes Mercutio wonders if either of his friends really know him at all, because if they did, they would know he takes at least thirty minutes to get ready, at a minimum. So as he pulls up his hair into a loose ponytail and slips into an outfit that is at least halfway reasonable for a party, Mercutio laments to himself about what horrible friends he has. And by 'himself' he means out loud as he frantically searched for his best shoes while Benvolio wheezed and hiccuped in the corner. Mercutio really would punch him if his face wasn't already messed up.

So, who can really blame him if he's in a funk, between the conversation he had earlier and the absolute lack of preparation time, by the time he and Benvolio finally meet up with Romeo. The first thing his friend does is hand him a flimsy mask, black and silver and surprisingly fitting to his color scheme, before leaning against him and retelling the events of the morning through Romeo-tinted glasses. And if Mercutio can hardly process anything beyond the feeling of Romeo's cheek pressed into his shoulder, well, it's really the fault of sleep deprivation and worry over his dumb friends.

They stand outside the Capulet mansion and prepare themselves for what could either be the best night of their lives or the biggest disaster that has faced this side of Verona. They have a bet going, how it's going to end, and while Mercutio firmly bet from a chaotic good standpoint, he secretly agrees with Benvolio that the night is going to end in a fight or death or some other dramatic change in the universe. If he's honest, every time they collectively go out, there seems to be some sort of revolutionary moment that occurs. At least, to Romeo and Benvolio. Mercutio has yet to receive his life-changing moment, and frankly, he's both trepidatious and excited about the concept. 

"Should we continue, or should we turn back now?" Romeo asks in a rare moment of hesitation. He in particular is at risk in the situation, while Mercutio wouldn't truly be threatened by the Capulets, not with who he is. 

Mercutio smirks. "And miss out on the dancing?"

"Mercutio, just because some of us like dancing, doesn't mean we all do."

"Aw come on, just do what all people like you do- make it up as you go." 

"People like me?" Romeo laughs.

"Oh you know, the poets, the procrastinators, the lovers," Mercutio says, choosing to ignore the glance Benvolio sends him.

"Lover, yeah," Romeo scoffs. "Love has done nothing to gain my favor."

"Hasn't it? I was under the impression that it's favor lies exclusively in you." Mercutio slips his mask on his face. "Of course, we never know what the future holds."

At this, Romeo grins, wrapping an arm around Mercutio's shoulders. "Maybe love's favor will finally find you."

"I doubt it," Mercutio states, before gently ducking under Romeo's arm and back into the open air. His face felt hot.

"I hope you two know the party starts soon," Benvolio interrupts, also slipping on his mask. "We should probably get walking."

With much delay, including Romeo's excessive metaphors retelling his troubles with love, all of which set a pit deeper in Mercutio's stomach, the trio heads up the castle. Mercutio can't help but feel like something sinister lies ahead, bubbling at the surface of what seemed like an innocent party. And when Romeo starts speaking of dreams, Mercutio can't help the words that tumble out, a nervous jumble of fiction and truth that sends him reeling. His head is spinning and he's on the floor, and he can't exactly remember how he got there, but Benvolio is kneeling next to him, clenching his hand as if that would help stabilize him. Mercutio feels out of breath, and the world only keeps spinning at a dizzying pace when he glances up and sees Romeo staring at him as if he's spouted a second head. But the looming ominous feeling is still hanging over him, and he can't bear to do much but allow Benvolio to pull him up and steer him once more towards the entrance of the mansion. 

* * *

The party is just as lavish as Mercutio expected, decorations filling the halls more than the people do. Large chandeliers, draperies across each of the ceiling-tall windows, enough chairs and tables to comfortably sit more than the capacity of the building. If Mercutio dwells too long on how all this was acquired, he begins to feel nauseous, so instead his eyes flicker across the faces of the people occupying the room, all wearing masks similar to his, though more obviously 'Capulet'. They all stand in clusters and the chatter echoes around the large ballroom, almost drowning out the music that drifts from the corner closest to the open space for dancing. Mercutio's eyes soon land on the table that has the food and drinks splayed out on its surface, and he soon makes a beeline when he realizes his friends had, of course, immediately ditched him. 

If he was honest with himself, parties had never quite been his scene. He enjoyed being at the center of attention, but there was something about the atmosphere of every party he'd been to that made him stick to the walls. As much as he boasted of dancing, those activities were restricted for the sleazier joints downtown, where neither the Capulets or Montagues would dare find themselves. Of course, his uncle would similarly disagree with such a place, but Mercutio had never been fond of following the rules either way.

Without much else to do, Mercutio's eyes once again scan the room, searching for familiar faces in the crowd, both Montague and Capulet alike. His eyes first find Tybalt, who is standing next to the head Capulet, and Mercutio squints as he leans in to whisper something into the older man's ear. His eyes quickly move on through the crowd, finding faces that he can not place name to face when inhibited by the masks, before making eye contact with Benvolio across the room, who seems to be making tentative conversation with a Capulet servant. Mercutio grins over at Benvolio, sending him a thumbs up, missing the sympathetic look shot his way as he moves his eyes to the left.

The sight doesn't click right in his mind for a moment, only recognizing the obvious posture and hair of the one and only Romeo Montague, before the rest of the picture seems to come into focus. One of Romeo's hands is resting against another, and his lips are similarly attached. He glows ethereally under the golden lights that hang above him, and even from across the room, Mercutio can feel the allure coming off him in waves. Just as he is spellbound, the girl Romeo is kissing seems to be too, and as his eyes focus in on the girl's face, Mercutio gets sick to his stomach. The girl is unmistakably the Capulet daughter. 

Mercutio twists violently the opposite way, hands clenching the tablecloth that lined the refreshments table. His eyes clench closed and he gulps down air, trying his best to push the image of Romeo's newest attraction out of his mind. Instead, his mind hooks onto the image of Romeo's eyes closed in bliss, hand drifting across the girl's waist, not a care in the world as he seduced the daughter of one of the other most prominent gangs in the city. He'd like to pretend that's the only reason the sight sends him into a rage, but he's having a hard enough time forgetting the sight of Romeo's hand outstretched, meeting the girl's. Hardly thinking, his hand flies out to grab the nearest cup, and when the burning sensation tickles his throat and he coughs, it almost feels like a relief. And when he gulps down another, he can pretend this is the first time he's ever felt like this. 


	2. Act 2 Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercutio deals with the aftermath of the party in mostly poor but sometimes healthy ways. He has three conversations with some interesting people, all of which are drastically different, but seem to end in a similar sense of warmth and unease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent writing schedule? What's that?
> 
> Apologies for the late update! School has made writing a little rough, but I promise, I'm working on this story whenever I can. I'm so invested in Mercutio's character, it's almost sad.
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy this chapter!

By the time Mercutio reaches the garden, he's had beyond his fair share of the expensive wine provided by the Capulets that lay like an apple in the middle of the garden of eve. Except, he feels as if he is closer in kin to the snake than to Adam or Eve. Either way, the fountain in the center seems way too appealing, and if it weren't for Benvolio's tight grip on his shoulder, he might have toppled face-first into it's crystalline depths. He settles for staring at the dainty flowers planted around the circumference of the fountain, which he discovers quickly are roses, and untrimmed ones at that. His finger quickly ends up in his mouth.

When he removes it, he stumbles and sits down on the edge of the fountain, before slurring out, "How c'me we're… out here."

Benvolio looks at him like he's an idiot. "You were going to pass out."

"I di'n't have tha' much!"

"Four glasses is what I'd consider 'that much'." 

"Wha'ever," Mercutio mumbles, "Best part of tha' party."

The pitying look from the earlier morning is back on Benvolio's face, and it makes Mercutio wonder when this became their dynamic, how they functioned. It seems as if more and more of Mercutio's life surrounds how he feels about Romeo, and it's even invading his interactions with Benvolio. He feels a little bad, but in his state, can hardly think past the idea of hands and lips touching set to the background of golden extravagance. Mercutio falls backwards into the fountain.

He splutters in the water and waves his limbs this way and that, kicking his legs upwards and splashing water out of the fountain. It's a shock to his system and suddenly, even in the freezing water, everything feels like it's on fire, and his eyes burst open as he's pulled up into a sitting position by frantic hands. Mercutio gasps at the fresh air and blinks up at the night sky and Benvolio's startled expression. The other man's eyes shine with concern and fear, and even if it feels a little cruel, Mercutio starts laughing, just like that morning, unknowing if it's because of his fall or his friend's expression.

But the moment ends all too soon as Mercutio recalls the events of not even thirty minutes before, and the venom in his veins in back, fueled by the chilly water he continued to sit in. His stomach swirls, his laughter dies. He sits in the fountain and looks up at the statue that looms over him. It's a figure of a woman, face blank except her pouting lips, with her hand outstretched. In her palm sits a golden apple, with the paint chipping and peeling off, as if it had been forgotten and left to rot. Of course, the rest of the statue looks immaculate, so the impoverished state of the apple confuses Mercutio. 

"-cutio? Mercutio!"

He snaps his attention over to Benvolio, who still has the same fear etched across his face. It has the same pity as well, which motivates Mercutio to push himself into a standing position, using the statue as a handhold. Unfortunately, as soon as most of his weight is on the statue, the part of the statue he was holding on to snaps off, sending him tumbling back into the water. He sighs, and turns his head back up towards the sky. The moon is full in its glory. "What if…. I'm chipped?"

Benvolio's voice is filled with confusion. "What do you mean?"

"What if I'm just…" Mercutio sighs. "Broken. Chipped of paint."

"Mercutio…" Benvolio sits at the edge of the fountain and touches the surface of the water, sending ripples towards where Mercutio lays. "You're not broken."

"I was broken earlier."

"That was a… brief lapse in judgement."

"I'm crazy."

"You've had a rough day."

Mercutio scoffs. "My friend, you've had far worse. Your limp is still apparent."

"We're not playing pain Olympics."

Lifting his hand up from the water, Mercutio waves it back and forth. "Yeah, yeah, but I'm just saying, I don't think…" He gulps at the thought of the kiss once again. "I think mine pales in comparison."

"Regardless, it hurt."

Mercutio pushes himself back in a sitting position, and whispers, a tone at the lower end of his voice, softer than the crickets and frogs that sang in the background, "It did. It really did, Benvolio."

And suddenly, Mercutio is crying. He can still hear the water in the fountain behind him, and it swirls around his fingers pressed against the concrete at the bottom. He's shivering, and there's water streaming down his face, a probable mix of fountain water and tears. His focus shifts from the roses to the water to the night sky and back again. He doesn't know what to focus on until he feels something wrap around his shoulders on, and when he heaves in another breath he glances over and his vision is overtaken with Benvolio, who had climbed in the fountain to reach Mercutio. His embrace is a welcome relief, and he chokes into the other man's shoulder, water forgotten, thoughts only on golden lights and palms touching and the scent of pine and lips. The world stops for just a moment, under the silver light of the moon, shining down on what would be pitiful to anyone but the two central characters. 

They split at the sound of cracking branches, violently and suddenly, sending waves of water crashing against the brim of the fountain. Their eyes are drawn to the source of the noise quickly, which consists of a figure trampling through a bed of roses a few meters away, clearly searching for something amongst the walls. Mercutio squints, and he can see the purple mask and dark hair hanging over the man's eyes. Romeo Montague, in the flesh, and Mercutio is sitting in a fountain. He quickly scrambles out, followed more quietly and slowly by Benvolio. They both stand at the edge of the fountain and watch as Romeo approaches a garden wall covered with greenery and thorns. He looks just as flawless when he starts climbing, although Mercutio can't help but wince a little, and when Romeo reaches the other side of the wall, Mercutio lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. 

Benvolio, taking the lead, approaches the orchard wall, and shouts, "Romeo!"

Mercutio scuttles forward and shushes him quickly. "We don't want him to know we were here when he leapt over the wall. _I_ don't want him to know we were here." 

"I'm pretty sure he heard us splash in the fountain."

"It's Romeo." Mercutio raises his eyebrows. "Has he ever noticed anything not in front of him?"

Benvolio's laugh is a little off tune. "I suppose not."

"We'll just suppose…" Mercutio raises his voice to finish his sentence. "Romeo must have went to bed, as he's _obviously_ wise and intelligent and knows that staying out any later is a _very_ dumb idea."

"Of course, of course." Benvolio, bless him, plays along. "He definitely, _definitely_ did not leap over this convenient orchard wall." 

"Obviously. Though, if he had, I'd call him over by telling him to get his lazy, love-sick, slutty ass-"

Benvolio slaps Mercutio in the arm. "Alright, that's enough."

"I'm only saying what's true. Besides," Mercutio spits the next words out in a fit of anger that fizzles out a moment later, "he's never really felt love anyways. He's just slept around a few too many times."

"Mercutio!"

"Come on, I'm done here." Mercutio's eyes are far from the orchard wall and Benvolio's face, biting his lip suddenly in uncertainty. 

Benvolio sighs. "Our _search_ is in vain. We might as well go." Benvolio outstretches his hand. "Coming?"

In what Mercutio might later call a fit, he grabs onto Benvolio's hand, and doesn't let go until they're within a block of his house. 

* * *

At this point, sneaking through his own house has become a tradition, stepping on the right points of the wooden floorboards to prevent the echoing creak and checking around corners before slipping down the chilly hallways. He's found himself avoiding his father's nefarious deals more as he gets older, finding only nausea and baneful habits lie within them. He was never suited for dirty work, growing up under one of the richest families in the city. He tries to ignore the fact that someday, he'll inherent all his father built up, which means debts and favors all waiting to be repaid. Mercutio doesn't think he'll survive a minute of it.

Most days, he makes it to his bedroom without issue. However, today isn't most days, and Mercutio is a bit wobbly on his feet, and in his alcohol-addled state, forgets that the fourth stair from the top always creaks, no matter where you step. He freezes. He tries to hold his breath. He squeezes his eyes shut. Eventually, when he can't hear anyone stomping down the hall, or the click of a gun, he continues on the path to his bedroom. His room is safer.

At least, that's what he thought, until he swung open the door to a starry-eyed Romeo spread across his bed. 

"What the fuck are you doing?" Mercutio whispers.

Romeo lets out a dreamy sigh before turning his head toward Mercutio. "I fell in love tonight."

And Mercutio curses every god and deity out there, because in that moment, Romeo's eyes glitter in the moonlight and he sounds so desperately in love, and in that glimpse of a moment, Mercutio begs the Gods for a piece of it, something to hold and love more than he's allowed to, more than just at arms-length, more than just a little bit at a time while he's bursting with more than he can handle. But instead, Romeo laments about a girl, and Mercutio sits and listens. Same old story, same old book. "Is that so?"

"She's gorgeous, in the moonlight she shines like-"

"The Capulet girl, right?"

Romeo sits up. "How did you know?"

Mercutio shrugs. "Lucky guess."

"Well, she's the nicest person I've ever met, and she's so beautiful, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw her at that party, Mercutio, I couldn't, she's the prettiest girl I've ever met."

"Look," Mercutio starts, pausing to quietly shut the door behind him, "I think… maybe you should just be careful."

Romeo furrows his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"

Mercutio sighs, dropping himself into the armchair at the other end of the room, legs tucked up in front of him, covering his chest. "Don't act dumb, Romeo, it doesn't suit you. You know what I'm talking about. Her family… they're one of the most powerful families in the city. You can't really expect-"

"Don't be jealous, Mercutio."

Mercutio freezes. His hands clench the fraying edges of the chair. "I'm not _jealous_. What do you even mean?"

"I think you're worrying too much." Romeo flops back down on the bed. "She makes me happy, and that's all that matters."

"Is it? What if they find out Romeo, you're already their enemy, don't give them a reason to hunt you down-"

"They won't find out, don't worry."

"Tybalt already did."

Romeo squints over at Mercutio. "I knew you had seen us at the party."

"Because you were kissing in the middle of the ballroom!" Mercutio quietly shouts, shooting looks at his bedroom door. "I just think, for once, you need to be a little more rational about this."

"For once?"

Mercutio's voice quiets once again to a low whisper. "They could kill you, Romeo."

Romeo pauses for a moment, before chuckling softly, without a hint of spite. "I think they know my family's a threat too."

Not knowing how to respond, Mercutio shrugs, eyes downcast as he tries to comprehend what he's hearing. Romeo has done many great things for love, but life and death? Mercutio supposes he shouldn't be surprised, as Romeo is not one to shy away from lamenting how he'd rather die than be away from his "beloved", but at this time of night, with such a serious tone of voice, Mercutio can't help but fear he'd truly go that far. So he stands up, and slowly steps over towards Romeo until he's standing right above him, and simply says, in a tone so soft his voice is almost carried away by the wind, "Please don't die on me."

Romeo quickly sits up and wraps his arms around Mercutio, pulling him downwards to his level. The embrace, unlike many before, lingers for longer than a few seconds, kept still in a moment of passion or exhaustion or maybe even desperation. Mercutio feels like the water from the fountain is still rushing around him, splashing against his skin, but he feels warmer than he did back then, maybe warmer than he's ever felt. It's peaceful. And all too soon, it's gone. But even when Romeo pulls back, Mercutio can feel the warmth on his skin where the other boy had pressed. He's been pining for far too long.

Romeo soon approaches the window, which lay open, sending the cool night breeze into the room. He climbs up onto the sill and says, "I promise", before beginning the trek down the side of the house and to the ground below. 

Mercutio can't help the instinct to lean over to his wooden table and knock on it a few times. 

* * *

By the time Mercutio lays down in bed, he feels restless, his head jumbled with information. If there was ever a cure for insomnia, the combination of alcohol, a fountain, and learning the man you're pining after is in love with yet another woman surely isn't it. He thinks sometimes that maybe he angered a god sometime in a past life, because in the early hours of the morning, Mercutio's joints creak with age and in his bones he feels an anguish he doesn't know how to resolve. So, maybe he lashes out, and maybe he drinks, but how else are you meant to deal with a bone-deep instinct that you're wrong. He dreads the day the feeling comes to fruition.

Regardless, a sleepless night awaits him, so he takes on out of Romeo's book and creaks open the windows and glances down at the greenery below him. He's only three stories high, but he still gulps, momentarily frightened by the sight. He begins to climb down, and spends most of it avoiding glancing downwards towards his destination. He only mildly succeeds. The ground is a welcome relief, and he's soon overcome with the slight rush of freedom that comes with activities such as climbing out of windows or setting off firecrackers. He lets out a giddy laugh. He's spent the last day being the serious one, and it's not his style at all. It's more Benvolio's look.

So instead, Mercutio does the first rebellious act he can think of, which involves jumping over a rusted metal gate back into the Capulet's orchard. While in most circumstances this would also constitute a death wish, Mercutio instead has the overwhelming urge to place his eyes on the fountain he'd been in earlier in the day. He's almost certain this level of fascination isn't healthy, but in comparison, he thinks that wanting to see a fountain is much less dangerous than the daughter of one of the most intimidating people in the city. He reaches the fountain and his lips turn up into a half smile, eyes tracing the roses and apple once again. He's reminded of the hug that had taken place earlier in the day, and he almost feels content.

At least, until he hears a branch snap behind him.

He twists around, eyes wide, ready to pounce or bolt when necessary, before his sight trains on the intruder: the Capulet daughter. Her eyes, a smooth brown, change from hostile to soft when they traces his face. His emotions flare between prideful and threatened when he realizes she must know who he is. He quickly spouts out, "What are you doing here?"

The girl's eyebrows furrow and she crosses her arms over her chest. "Me? What am I doing here? What about you! This is _my_ family's orchard."

Mercutio flusters for a moment. "It's… None of your concern."

"Mercutio… You don't have to be threatened by me," she begins softly, uncrossing her arms, "I don't mean to take Romeo away from you."

Blinking at her incredulously, Mercutio takes a gentle step back, leg just barely brushing against the rose bush behind him. "Look, I'm not sure what you're talking about, but-"

"I'm not going to push you to accept me, but believe me, I didn't think this was going to happen either. If I had known, well-" She cuts herself off from finishing.

"Known what?" Mercutio leans in. 

"Well, that you had claim on Romeo."

Mercutio sputters, eyes scanning her face for any hints of foul play or joking. "I don't- oh my god- I don't have a, uhm, claim, on him."

The girl just smiles gently at his antics. "But you do like him, do you not?"

Time seems to stop, for a moment, and fear seizes at Mercutio's heart. This girl shouldn't know this information. He had kept it under lock and key, tucked away in his heart for only himself. If she knew something like this, she could go to someone else about it, worst of all, Romeo. "How do you… know about that."

She giggles softly, and it sounds like wind chimes and morning birds and everything Romeo would find beautiful. "I'm more perceptive than I look. I was facing towards you when you saw us together. I'm sorry, for our actions at the party, I really… I wasn't expecting to feel so… passionately." She pauses for a moment, seeming to search for the right words. "It seems he really is the center of gravity for many of us."

"You've only known him for a night," Mercutio whispers, not daring to allow this conversation to be any louder, "How can you believe he's the center of gravity? That's not- that's not how it works."

"It does with Romeo." 

Mercutio resents her, a little bit, and maybe resents this conversation a little bit more, because he can't help but admit that she's right. From the moment he'd met Romeo, he had known who the center of the universe was. Romeo has this impeccable talent of pulling people in, and it seems almost impossible not to be destroyed in the process. Hearing someone else say it out loud almost felt like a weight lifted off of Mercutio's shoulders. Hearing it from the Capulet girl, however, only put a little more back on. 

They stand in silence for a few moments, the only sound the trickling fountain behind them, before the girl says, "My name is Juliet. I'm afraid I already know your name, so I don't think this is very much of an introduction, but I believe that regardless of an introduction, a friendship can bloom just as well."

"Friendship?" Mercutio repeats incredulously, trying to find the words to say how absurd that idea was.

"Yes." She sticks out her hand. "Friends. Regardless of who Romeo chooses."

He lets her hand hang. "We both know who he'll choose."

Julie shrugs with one shoulder and keeps her hand out. "I still believe this is a friendship worth building."

"Why?"

She seems to collect her thoughts once again, shifting her feet a few times, before saying, "I think… we could both use a friend, who knows what it's like. Romeo is…"

"A lot."

"A lot. And I think, well, sometimes that can be hard. Especially for you. Besides. I want to be your friend. Outside of Romeo."

Mercutio stares at her, scanning her face for signs of genuineness. Juliet's expression shows nothing but kindness, and a hint of excitement within her eyes. It scares him, just a little, but the proposition ignites a little bit of excitement within him. He still dreads the idea, and jealousy pools in his stomach even now, but her words were convincing. He had wanted for so long someone who would understand what the world with Romeo as your center felt like. Benvolio tries, all the time, but the bond between cousins is certainly different than that of friends, or, rather, friends that include one of the parties being hopelessly devoted to the other. He sees this girl, Juliet, and thinks of the kiss, but maybe, just maybe, she's right, and introductions don't make the friendship.

He takes her hand, and shakes it, but instead saying, "Acquaintances."

She laughs, hardy and loud, entirely unlike her previous giggle, and nods her head, repeating back, "Acquaintances."

There's silence for a few moments, before Mercutio says, "You can't say anything to Romeo."

"Of course not. I'm not a demon."

Mercutio laughs. "Of course not. In the words of Romeo, you're an angel, really."

Juliet smiles. "Of course, that would mean you're an angel too."

"Me?" Mercutio scoffs. "Na."

"Well, you know," Juliet starts, a grin spreading across her face. The moonlight shines down on them both, casting their faces in silver light. A night in eternity. "Romeo only ever falls for angels."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that ending was not too out of the blue! I wanted to try and balance skepticism and genuine interest, but trust me, this does not mean Mercutio is automatically best friends with Juliet! These things take time. 
> 
> I sincerely hope you enjoyed! Any sort of feedback is welcome!


	3. Act 2 Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mercutio doesn't really like blood. Too bad he has to face it. Featuring confrontation.
> 
> Or, Benvolio is getting old from all the stuff he watches his friends do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parts of this chapter just did not want to be written but I got very abrupt inspiration and now we're here! I'm rather happy with this chapter overall, and it sets up some important stuff, so I'm excited about that.
> 
> Tw for a gay slur! It's not a really bad one, but if you want to skip it, just skip the paragraph that starts with "Tybalt continues to speak...". 
> 
> Hopefully you all enjoy! I promise it gets less angsty later, but you really have to make them suffer to get there! Please leave kudos & comment, I absolutely love getting feedback!

When Mercutio bolts up from bed, scrambling away from the covers into a standing position, half-awake but already across the room, blearily stumbling around, he assumes he had a nightmare and his actions were remnants of a fight-or-flight reaction. But then a bang echoes across the house and he can't help the shiver that slithers up his spine. His new, state-of-the-art alarm clock turns out to be a gunshot. Who would have guessed.

He wraps a robe around his body and slowly pulls open his bedroom door before tiptoeing out into the hallway. He doesn't know why he has the overwhelming urge to search out what the gunshot was for, because in the back of his mind he knows exactly the source, but his hands are shaking and he's not sure, after the previous night, he's got the decision-making skills in order to force him away from his own curiosity. Besides, it's been awhile since he's heard a gunshot within the house, so it's truly a mystery as to what brought it out. 

Mercutio leans against the banister as he creeps down the stairs, ducking down as he sees two figures in the foyer, one with the signature faded red hair that signifies his father, and another figure with shiny black hair, slicked back in the way that makes people seem like stereotypical movie mob bosses, that Mercutio wasn't sure he recognized. The man has his hands up near his head, and his father has a pistol pointed towards the man's head. Mercutio couldn't make out the words, but the black-haired man seems increasingly more distressed, eyebrows furrowed and sweat-droplets making a slow path down his forehead. He must have been one of the leaders of a smaller gang: the fake air of importance, the suit, the hair, it all pointed towards an inexperienced man in the business his father was an expert in. He grimaces, but before he could turn around to creep back up the stairs, another gunshot bounces off the walls, with the sound of a body hitting the floor following just after it. Mercutio tenses unconsciously and squeezes his eyes shut, unable to stop the sound from bouncing around his skull. He wishes for a minute he had just stayed in bed. 

"Mercutio."

Mercutio stops breathing. He opens his eyes. His father stands facing him, the gun absent from his hand, the body still there, still lying there, eyes still open, and Mercutio has a hard time peeling his eyes away from the sight.

"Mercutio." His father repeats, tone harder, arms crossed in front of his body. 

Mercutio looks up. "Yes, father?"

"Isn't it about time for you to head out?" 

Mercutio quickly nods, and picks himself up off the step and flies upwards towards his room once again, skipping as many steps as he could. He's not about to say no to his father. He'll find somewhere to keep himself occupied. Romeo is bound to be out-and-about, lamenting-

Well. Will he be lamenting? It's a thought that makes him lean against his bedroom door, stomach churning, a product of both the sight he'd just witnesses and the thought, but it's a truthful one all the same. He'll be professing his love for Juliet to the streets, no doubt. Mercutio closes his eyes and bangs his head lightly against the door frame. He doesn't know how he'll make it through. It's worse because, after their conversation last night, he kind of doesn't hate Juliet. And yet his heart still twists at the idea of them together. He doesn't cry, but he feels like he should, and instead his chest hurts and he stays leaning up against the door frame until the anxiety about his father's reappearance makes him start looking for something to wear.

After he puts on something decent and heads on his way out, he stops at the foyer once again. The man's body was moved, and left in his place were little patches of blood that left themselves embedded in the wood. Blood never likes to leave wooden floors, Mercutio knew, and it was likely a new rug would be bought in order to cover up the stains left behind, even after it was mopped up. The thought made him feel a little off-kilter, and as he stares at the dark red, he wonders if that's a little victory on the man's part: dead, but forever found an annoying little corner in the lives of those who wronged him. His father would be tripping over the new carpet for at least a week. It wasn't justice, but it was something. At least, it made Mercutio feel slightly better. 

He steps out the door, and tries not to think of the man's glassy eyes. 

* * *

"What do you mean he never went home? I thought, well-"

"I talked to his father. Supposedly, he never showed up. His mother is worried sick."

"She always is. Still, it's… Unnerving, to say the least."

"Especially since…" Benvolio pauses there, face scrunching up as if he had just made a mistake. He sighs and runs a hand down his face. 

Mercutio pauses on their stroll, hands folded in front of him. "Since what?"

Benvolio's nose wrinkles up as he stops to face Mercutio. "I really shouldn't tell you."

"Benvolio, if it's important, surely I have a right to know."

Benvolio grimaces and shrugs with one elbow, before speaking, with little pauses in-between words, "Alright… you have to promise not to do anything… rash."

"When do I ever do anything rash?"

Benvolio looks pointedly at Mercutio, both of them aware how absurd that statement was, before kicking a rock off the concrete and into the grass. He relays the information in a soft tone, barely perceivable beyond the sounds of the park around them, "Tybalt sent a letter to their house."

Mercutio's eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. "A challenge?"

"Obviously. And, knowing Romeo, he's going to accept it."

Chuckling nervously, Mercutio replies, "well, anyone can accept a challenge, but actually going through with it?"

Benvolio grabs his wrist. "It's Romeo we're talking about here. Do you really think he'll stop at just accepting? He's bound to be dead the moment he steps in front of the other man."

Silence permeates the air, before eventually, Mercutio responds, "Well, we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen, won't we?"

"What are you planning?" Benvolio steps closer, a hesitant look on his face.

"Nothing yet. But Tybalt isn't going to go down easy. And with the way Romeo is now, well…"

"The way Romeo is now?"

Mercutio looks Benvolio dead in the eyes. "He's in love."

Benvolio's eyes widen for a moment, and they both stare at each other. Mercutio knows what Benvolio is thinking; he is the last one to ever concede to the idea that Romeo is in love, so for him to admit it is a testament to how honest he is. And Mercutio hates his own honesty, wish he could deny the idea like he had done millions of times before, and yet the sour taste sits in his tongue and he can't bring himself to forget the night before, how serious the topic of life and death had seemed. It felt ominous, like a shadow lingering over his shoulder, telling him that this was beyond a fairytale romance. 

Benvolio abruptly breaks away, eyes still wide, but instead they are angled over Mercutio's shoulder and to something lurking behind. Mercutio slowly turns around, and there stands Romeo, in the previous night's clothes, his mask conspicuously hanging out of his pocket. There's a weird expression on the other man's face, his eyes lingering a little lower than both Benvolio and Mercutio's faces, before they snap up once again. Mercutio grins, a little wild, and says "Romeo, bonjour! What happened to you last night?"

And Romeo looks at him, slyly raising an eyebrow, questioning his unwillingness to mention the facts they both know. "Since when have you known french?"

"Since now, mon amour."

"How strange, I thought you said French was the last language you'd ever learn."

"Even stranger, although I never said that, this little french birdie told me you found another birdie to, well, pardon my French, keep you company."

"I may have… met someone last night." 

"You? Meet someone at a party?" Benvolio chuckles. "What are the odds."

Romeo crosses his arms and rolls his arms, but doesn't hide the fact that he's grinning, "This one's different, you guys, I really think it's gonna work."

Mercutio glances half-hazardly over at Benvolio and sees the hesitation in his eyes that tells of his reluctance to believe that Romeo, known for his exploits in love and sex alike, could truly be in love. But Mercutio hasn't stopped thinking about the previous night, about Romeo's insistence on love and Juliet's passion and matter-of-fact demeanor, and he can't help the creeping thought in his mind that maybe, just maybe, this is it. It's an admission that he wouldn't dare to speak out loud.

"That's…." Benvolio's tone is soft. "That's good. I… I hope it does."

Romeo smiles, all teeth and little crow's feet around the edges of his eyes, and Mercutio falls in love for the millionth time. It's always the little things- a gentle touch, a quick grin- that reinforce what he feels, even when it hurts the most. However, Romeo's expression quickly returns to a casual grin, and he asks, "So, what were you two doing?"

Benvolio laughs, a tinge of nervousness hidden within. "Oh, y'know…"

"We were talking about my daring exploits last night, in which I became friends with an angel and found death on my doorstep."

Benvolio turns towards Mercutio with an incredulous look. Romeo laughs, and leans closer, "An angel? And death? Mercutio, you might have been just dreaming."

Mercutio shakes his head and winks. "I swear! The angel told me secrets of the center of gravity within her garden next to the fountain of youth. And death brought me a new rug for my foyer. It was all rather boring, really."

Romeo swats at Mercutio's shoulder. "Definitely dreaming."

"Or experiencing the side effects of four glasses of wine," Benvolio responds, with a monotonous tone. 

Mercutio gasps in faux exasperation, lightly pushing his shoulder into Benvolio's. "You said you wouldn't spill my secrets."

"Four glasses?" Romeo's expression turns more serious, eyebrows furrowing. "Why?"

Mercutio shrugs. "No one else was drinking them. Really, I thought, why leave all this to waste? Our hosts, the most esteemed and most certainly not one of the most dangerous gangs in the city, so carefully chose all of this wine, and I felt an obligation to not let their decision go in vain. So, four glasses."

Mercutio ignores Benvolio's deadpan expression. He really tries to, anyways. Romeo looks skeptical, but ultimately decides to let it go, as he shrugs and says, "well, at least you found your fun." 

"Romeo?" Someone calls from the distance.

The trio turns towards the source of the noise to see a servant, meek and rat-like, with a scrunched up nose and sideburns that run down his cheeks, bustling towards them with a letter in hand. As soon as he reaches them, he pushes the letter into Romeo's hands, who proceeds to ask, "Is this from…?" The rat-like man nods fervently.

Romeo instantly peels the seal off of the back and begins to unfold the letter. The man blinks a couple times, before he coughs, and says, with a croaky voice that says either old age or smoker, "The letter is confidential," before glancing at Mercutio and Benvolio, who both frown. 

Romeo stops and glances at his friends as the tips of his ears turn red, before he nods slightly to himself and speaks, "Sorry, I really have to read this. I'll see you guys… Later?"

Mercutio huffs and rolls his eyes but nods all the same, while Benvolio smiles and waves him away. With that, Romeo departs, with the rat-like man not far behind. Mercutio and Benvolio stand there for a moment, watching their friend stumble off, before Mercutio says, in a quiet voice, "I hope it's not a letter from Tybalt."

"I don't think he's that desperate to fight," Benvolio responds, before turning towards Mercutio, "and you better not do anything to make him that desperate."

Mercutio waves his hand at him. "Don't worry."

Benvolio sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. He looks old for a moment, and Mercutio wonders what made him look that way; surely not them? Benvolio whispers, a little choked up, "I always worry."

"Well, you shouldn't. Trust me."

"What are you going to do?"

"You don't need to know." Mercutio bumps his shoulder into Benvolio's side. "But I have a plan."

* * *

He doesn't have a plan. He never really has a plan for anything he does, which many would label as stupid, especially Benvolio, but really, Mercutio would label himself on the 'innovative' side. At the very least, he's learned how to be very impulsive, whether the consequences are good or bad. He aims for good most of the time. 

However, as he approaches the foreboding figure of Tybalt, who he intends to confront, he starts to wonder if, possibly, the outcome might not be as good as he hopes. Tybalt is tall, and stocky, and quite a bit more adept with his fists after years of training, in contrast to Mercutio, who gets by on reflexes and a powerful uncle to hide behind. But his mind is set, and he doesn't intend to back down now.

"Tybalt!" Mercutio shouts, and the other man quickly jerks around, "I think I need to have a word with you."

"And what word is that?" Tybalt already seems like he's restraining himself, with a locked jaw and crossed arms.

Mercutio tries to imitate his pose. "A word about a letter you sent to Romeo."

"Oh? Did he send his little pet to confront me instead?" He sneers. "I always knew he was a coward."

Something in Mercutio snaps. "Shut the fuck up, Tybalt."

"Did I hit a nerve?" He responds, mockingly, venom clear in his tone and eyes. 

"Just tell me why the fuck you want to fight Romeo, and we can go our separate ways."

This seems to strike something in Tybalt, and he smirks, the side of his mouth lifting up as his eyes light up in amusement. He holds a hand to his chest, and says, fake sympathy in his voice, "Oh, did he not tell you?"

Mercutio pauses. "Tell me what?"

Suddenly, the world turns sideways. There's a pain at the back of his skull and the world bursts with light. Mercutio slides his eyelids closed in a moments effort to get rid of the light, but the pain stays, and it takes him a second to process what had happened. He peels his eyes back open to see Tybalt towering over him, his smirk the only thing apparent beyond all the light. His head is bursting with pain, and it feels as if it's going to swallow him whole. 

"Haven't you heard? Romeo's just added my cousin to his list of girls he's slept with." Tybalt radiates anger. "Doesn't he know to stay on his own damn side?"

Suddenly the bottom of a shoe slams into his face and Mercutio violently swerves his body sideways, hand jerking up to his nose that is dripping in blood. He closes his eyes again and tries not to scream. He feels dizzy as he tries to push himself up. The world comes with black patches in it. He barely processes the words he hears. 

"Oh and it gets better. How long have they known each other? A day? They're already planning marriage. To each other."

This sends Mercutio's head flying far out into space. He finally pushes himself up onto his feet, swaying to the side as the world rocks back and forth. There's a pounding at the side of his head, like someone's trying to get in, desperately, like they're being attacked. Mercutio's too busy processing the sentence Tybalt spat out like it was poison. Marriage? He holds his head in his hand. 

Tybalt continues to speak slews of words that add to the flame, clearly intending to maim, "And he didn't even tell you? Some friend, huh? Guess he was too ashamed of his fairy friend, who he knew was in love with him-"

Mercutio's fist slams into Tybalt's nose, and he almost falls backwards with the force of it all. His hand hurts, his head hurts, and he can barely breathe as he wheezes out air through his mouth. It feels like a conscious effort to exist and all his mind has on repeat is the slur he just heard, he can't believe he just heard. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Tybalt's back on his feet like nothing has happened, while Mercutio feels close to keeling over. The urge to run, to flee, to be anywhere but in that situation flares up in his chest and he heaves another breath but doesn't run because as much as he feels broken in half, both physically and emotionally, his curiosity has been piqued. Tybalt just smirks again. "You heard me. Don't tell me you're deaf as well as gay."

"Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You don't know anything."

"Oh, don't I?" Tybalt's fist slams into Mercutio's lip and he smacks back into the ground, palms suddenly shooting with pain, and he can feel the blood dripping down from his nose and mouth, and he can feel the vomit rising in his throat, sudden and violent. Tybalt looks unharmed. "I think you'd be surprised by what the people in this city know. I think, really, you should be careful about what you do around here, especially with an uncle like yours."

Meructio's head is slammed down against the concrete once again and the light continues to seep into his skull, and there's nothing but white until he feels pressure against his throat, and suddenly everything floods back in vivid detail. Tybalt leans over him and presses his shoe into his throat, smirk gone, only furrowed eyebrows and downturned mouth and eyes that tell Mercutio the other man isn't afraid to kill. Which is exactly what sends terror down his spine, sharp and fast, nipping at the edges of his nerves that haven't been beaten into the dirt. 

Tybalt speaks softly, as if there were anyone who could hear them, "I know what kind of shit you get up to at night, Mercutio, so if I were you, I'd listen carefully. Tell your wannabe boyfriend to stay the fuck away from my cousin."

Meructio nods frantically, as much as he can around the shoe, fingernails starting to grasp at the concrete beneath him. His head goes fuzzy. He tries to breathe. He chokes, and chokes, and he can feel it in his bones.

"And also," Tybalt says, pressing harder for just a moment, "tell your father to get the fuck away from our property."

With that, the shoe lifts away from Mercutio's throat, and he immediately lifts his body up, lungs desperate for air, breathing and coughing and choking as he tries to get his body working. The world doesn't stop spinning and he stays there on the ground, squirming and shaking, clawing at the edges of awareness, before he finally gasps enough times for the world starts to settle down. His body relaxes into the concrete, and he lays there, breathing harshly through his mouth, feeling blood trickle down his face. His head hurts, and he feels nauseous. He tries to lift a hand to his face but his hands ache and he can feel them shaking. He peels his eyes open long enough to seem them torn at the palms, welling with blood. He's getting enough air but he still doesn't feel like he's breathing.

Mercutio, eventually, after what feels like hours of laying on the ground and trying to think past the pounding in his head, pushes himself into a sitting position. He hisses as his hands connect with the concrete. When he's upright, legs folded beneath him, he peels open his eyes and whispers a small "fuck" to the empty parking lot, devoid of any evidence of what occured except for him: small, dwarfed by the expanse of concrete and the news he'd just received while getting the shit beat out of him.

Romeo is getting married to Juliet. They have known each other for a day, and there were already plans made, hypothetical or not. And Tybalt knows, he knows about everything, and Mercutio can't do anything about it. He'll kill Romeo, if they're really getting married, Tybalt won't stop. Mercutio has heard the rumors; Tybalt isn't called the king of cats because of his calm demeanor, but instead, he's vicious, and will tear you down if you get in the way. Mercutio is the first-hand example, he supposes, with the way his hands are going numb and his face is banged up halfway to Sunday. Suddenly, his face is wet, and he's heaving in air like he can't breathe again, and he tucks his head between his knees and tries not to spiral into a panic. He feels pathetic in this moment, tied down to earth, aching and hurting because of some stupid decisions and a crush that never really made sense in the first place.

He heaves in air again, and when the tears stop, he goes silent, hands clenching at his sides. Why does he keep going through the same shit, over and over again, for even a chance at something he knows he'll never get? Why is he the one responsible for it all? Why does he keep finding himself near blood stains, near bruised faces and broken hearts, that are never his fault? He squeezes the palms of his hand and spends a second relishing the pain because he's furious, he's so angry at the world and Tybalt and Romeo and himself, and it feels like there's nothing left for him to do. He's trapped and it makes him feel like a caged animal. He wants out. 

Pushing himself into a standing position, Mercutio stumbles forward, squinting at the sun that was starting to set over the horizon. He feels restless all of a sudden, as if all the adrenaline that was supposed to kick in during the fight had suddenly decided to show up. He doesn't know where to go though, and he knows he looks like a mess, with blood drying on his face and hands, with a swollen lip and broken nose to match. The words about his uncle come back to him and he starts to feel panic rise in his chest again. What will happen if someone sees him like this?

Mercutio stumbles out of the parking lot and tries to stay in the shadows, trying to come up with a place to go. He can't go home, because if he gets caught looking like he does he'll end up worse than he started. He can't go to Benvolio's, because he lives on the ninth floor of an apartment building, and there's no way for him to sneak in. The only solution that leaves him with is Romeo. His hand clenches at his side again. He doesn't know if he'll make it a second in his house. 

When Mercutio reaches the side of Romeo's house, it takes all of his energy not to collapse onto the sidewalk. Just looking at the building zaps the anger he had out of him, and the world begins to feel fuzzy around his head again. He closes his eyes and breathes, pushing his hands against his legs in order to get them to stop shaking, before lifting one up to knock on Romeo's side window. He glances up at the sky and prays to whatever deity is out there that Romeo is home and he isn't stuck on the streets of Verona at night, without anywhere to end up. 

For once that day, luck is on his side, and the window slowly opens inwards, and Mercutio hesitantly meets eyes with Romeo, who looks as if he's seen a ghost. It's deafeningly silent, and Mercutio has to fight the urge to turn away from the window, turn away from the shock and horror that is so clearly etched on his friend's face. It doesn't help that his heart seizes up the moment he sees Romeo's hazel eyes glowing in the dim dusk light, flitting through both the new information he's learned and the same pining he's felt since he could last remember. Romeo moves away from the window, his eyes never leaving Mercutio. Mercutio carefully, though not without a few grunts and hisses, climbs over the windowsill and into Romeo's bedroom. 

As soon as his shoes hit the wooden floor, Romeo grabs Mercutio's chin and turns his face towards his own. The world slows down to a snail's pace, and Mercutio can feel the way his heart skips a few beats every second, the way his lungs forget to work. His face feels hot, and his hands shake a little again. Romeo studies his face, lips forming a thin line as his eyes trace across his nose and lips. His thumb reaches up and traces across the bottom of his swollen lip, wiping up the blood that hadn't dried on his face. Romeo's eyes finally meet Mercutio's, and they stay like that for a few moments, unblinking. No sound escapes either of their lips, and nothing seems to penetrate the barrier that this moment creates. Mercutio can hardly feel the pain that has crashed over him in waves from the moment Tybalt laid a hand on him. It's only him and Romeo.

And the world stops entirely, screeching to a halt and sending everything into a stand-still, when Romeo speaks, in a voice so low that it could blend in with the wind, tone hard and deadly serious, "who did this to you?"

The world starts up enough for Mercutio to suck in a breath, and respond quietly, with Romeo's hand still on his face, "it doesn't matter."

Romeo's hand minutely tightens. "If you don't tell me, I'll find out myself."

Mercutio's teeth find his lip and he chews on the part that isn't swollen, before he sighs. "Romeo, please…"

"I'm not kidding around here. Mercutio, tell me."

Sucking in a deep breath, Mercutio whispers, unconsciously trying to keep Romeo from hearing, "Tybalt."

Romeo freezes, seeming to take a moment to process the information, before his eyes harden and he drops his hand from Mercutio's face in order to squeeze it into a fist at his side. The world resumes its usual pace. "Fucking bastard."

"It's my fault, Romeo."

"Look what he did to you!"

"It's fine, it's not that bad-"

"Not that bad?" Romeo growls. "Have you seen your face?"

Mercutio sighs and stumbles back a little to drop down on Romeo's bed. He responds quietly, "no, I haven't."

Romeo's expression softens, and he takes a step forward. "Am I… the first person you came to?"

Meructio nods hesitantly. "Of course."

"Not Benvolio?"

Mercutio scrunches his eyebrows and shakes is head. Why would Romeo assume he'd go to Benvolio's first? He picks at the blanket beneath his hands, careful not to press his palms down, before he freezes as he remembers what he was angry about just minutes prior. "Tybalt told me something."

"You shouldn't listen to any bullshit he says."

"He told me you and Juliet are getting married." He stops to take in Romeo's shocked face. "Is it true?"

Silence settles for a moment over the both of them, and Mercutio searches Romeo's face, desperately for any hint that maybe Tybalt was lying, maybe he was making up the story to piss him off. After all the shit that's happened to him today, he feels like he deserves some good news. But it's funny, how the universe likes to keep fucking him over, because all he sees is shock and what Mercutio interpets as sorrow in Romeo's eyes. And then he confirms it out loud. And Mercutio's world crashes down around him, once again. 

"Yes."


	4. Act 3 Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tybalt revealed information that sends ripples across what Mercutio thought was true. Now that Romeo's admitted to it, how much farther can they all go?
> 
> Or: Romeo doesn't understand. Benvolio does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo! It's been a while since I've updated this fic. This year has been chaotic as we all know, and every time I planned to update it just seemed to fall through. However, I intend to keep updating, and I have all intentions to finish this fic, but judges are still out on exactly when that is. 
> 
> This chapter is a little short, but it sets up some things that you might call "the beginning of the end".
> 
> Thank you for everyone who has followed this story so far, and I hope you continue to do so through this time!

It's been exactly 8 minutes and 38 seconds since Romeo revealed that he and Juliet were getting married. Mercutio, of course, is keeping count, because he can't help his constant glancing at the clock on the wall across the room. He's pacing back and forth as Romeo sits on the bed, silent and still, with his legs pulled up to his chest. This fact, of course, infuriates Mercutio further, as he stops, splaying his hands out wide. "Were you even going to tell us?"

"Of course I was going to tell you guys, you're my best friends-"

"Before or after the wedding?"

Romeo goes silent. Mercutio groans, both from the implied response and the pain still radiating across his face. The world truly seems to be against him this week, and a part of him longs for a time that seems far gone: days spent finding mischief within the little city of Verona, unaware of his father and uncle's plans for him and blinded to the true meaning of the fluttering in his stomach when he glanced at Romeo. He feels, suddenly, that a part of him has died between the moments  _ then _ and  _ now _ ; he is stabbed through the heart by a sword clutched tightly in Romeo's shaky hands, unaware even now of Mercutio's undying obsession with his presence. It fills him with an inexplicable rage, one that has him turning around and slamming his palm against the wall. He barely feels it, too all-consumed with thoughts of Romeo and marriage, marriage, marriage to someone that  _ isn't him. _

He feels Romeo slowly approach behind him. A loud breath is taken before Romeo speaks, words soft and calming, toeing the line of condescending to Mercutio's ears, "Mercutio, you need to calm down. My parents can hear you."

And it takes all of the venom in Mercutio to spin around and spit out, "I fucking hope they do. Then I'll tell them all about your little plot and maybe they can knock some sense into you, because I'm  _ this _ close to doing it myself, you asshole," before he slumps down, knees crumpling beneath him as he heaves in breath after breath. 

Romeo stands there, hands at his sides. They both linger here, in this moment of silence, but it stretches painfully across both of their senses. Mercutio feels himself breaking, feels the years prickling at the corners of his eyes, and he can't tell if he's angry or just  _ devastated _ . Devastated for these events he always knew would happen (Romeo the romantic, Romeo the lover, Romeo the  _ heartbreaker _ ), but always hoped wouldn't. If only he had said something sooner, if only he had stopped these events before they began.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

Mercutio's head flies up, his eyes wide. Romeo, in a reflection of Mercutio's own face, has tears sliding down his cheeks, and he's frowning, the corners of his mouth creasing. His eyebrows are tucked downwards, and he looks hopelessly confused, hopelessly lost. He continues, "I don't understand it. Everytime something good happens to me, everytime I find someone I like, you always find  _ something _ to pick apart about it. Why can't you just be happy for me?"

Mercutio breaks, just a little bit more. "Romeo-"

Romeo shakes his head jerkily. "No, don't do that. Don't make me sympathize with you, again. I've spent so much time trying to understand you, Mercutio, hearing your stories, and I just don't get it. You always seem to be a little distant, like you're holding yourself back, like you're trying to keep us five feet apart, and I don't understand why. You don't talk about your home life, which is fine, I get it, but you don't talk about romance or love and then you turn around and criticize me for it like you know something I don't." His voice grows shakier. "And you and Benvolio are hiding something from me, and what am I supposed to think? And then you show up here, beaten up, because you fucking confronted Tybalt of all people by yourself, and it's like you have a death wish. And you won't even tell me why, won't even tell me what's wrong, and you keep going on about the wedding but there's something else going on and I think I deserve to know what it's about."

As soon as Romeo stops talking, he starts heaving in breaths, like he'd run a marathon to make this confession. Mercutio blinks once, then twice, before he admits, in a low voice, "Tybalt was threatening you."

Romeo's eyebrows furrow. "What?"

Mercutio looks towards the window. "The letter? He threatened you."

"The letter I got?" Romeo sounds even more confused. "That was from Juliet."

Mercutio glances back at Romeo only to see the creases around his eyes. "He… he sent one to your house. Talked about a duel. When I got there, asked if you'd sent me to deal with it instead."

Romeo blinks back at him before crossing his arms. "That still doesn't explain why you went."

"He threatened you."

Romeo makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "And? Why did you go, and not tell me?"

"I wasn't about to let you go out there," Mercutio responds, urgency in his tone. 

"And why not? Why won't you let me fight my own battles? Why won't you let me have relationships or enemies? God, Mercutio, it's like you're trying to control me. When the fuck did you become my parents? Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you, alright? What the fuck else was I supposed to do? Let you go out there, let Tybalt beat you into a pulp? Probably kill you, because at least he's a  _ little _ afraid of my uncle, unlike your father? And then, and then he tells me you're getting married, and I can't, I can't-" Mercutio suddenly stops, eyes wide, as his brain catches up with his mouth. "Wait, fuck, ignore that, I didn't-"

He cuts himself off as he looks up at Romeo, who seems to have become a statue. He stares blankly ahead, his arms now loose at his sides. Mercutio curses audibly and reaches a hand up to pull at his hair while his other hand snatches at his necklace and clutches it so hard his fingers turn white. He gets the impulse to yank it off his neck but he keeps it there, and instead focuses on the only thing he can: the way that he can't breathe, can't get more than a half-breath in before his lungs constrict. He can tell he's gasping, can tell his vision is getting fuzzier, but he can't breathe,  _ he can't breathe- _

He faintly, around the edges of his consciousness, feels something touch his shoulders, feels something grab his hand any pry it away from the necklace, feels  _ something _ grasp his other hand and disentangle it from his hair. He still can't breathe, but there's something talking, something saying his name (or at least, he's pretty sure it's his name), "Mercutio, c'mon, you need to breathe, take a deep breath in, you're going to suffocate." The issue is Mercutio doesn't know how to breathe, doesn't know if he's ever known, so he suffices with trying to keep his shallow breaths as long as he can, chest puffing in and out. He tries to listen to the voice, but it's hard, he can't,  _ he doesn't want to.  _

Eventually, however, he finds himself at a more normal pace, breaths finding a consistent rhythm. The fear hangs prevalent in his eyes but he feels less immediately panicked, especially when he takes in that it's Romeo's hands on him, Romeo's voice speaking to him. The first thing he registers is: Good. At least Romeo isn't disgusted by him. 

Heat is radiating off of Romeo's body, which is in close proximity to Mercutio's own. His arms are wrapped around Mercutio's shoulders, and his lips are dangerously close to his ear, a sensation that Mercutio is very abruptly aware of. A chill rips its way through him and he can't help but think of that night, in the fountain, soaking wet, wrapped in Benvolio's arms after seeing Romeo kiss Juliet. He's spent so long pining after Romeo's every move, and here he is, in his embrace, and he's never felt so wrong. He lingers on that for a moment (What could possibly be wrong about this?) before the sensations click together: Romeo's body is far, far too tense for a moment like this. 

Mercutio shifts slightly in his grip, which seems to have been Romeo's cue. He drops his arms, but doesn't move away, and Mercutio wonders for a split second what the hell he's waiting for before Romeo speaks, tone dark and deep, "I'm going to go find Tybalt."

Romeo, then, pushes himself up and away from Mercutio, stalking over to the window that Mercutio climbed in not thirty minutes ago. It takes Mercutio a few seconds to process what's happening, during which time Romeo unlatches the window and pushes it open. When he does, eventually, understand, he uses the wall to get himself up onto his feet, and replies, incredulously, "Romeo, you can't-"

"Mercutio," Romeo interrupts him, turning around and sending him a glance. Instantly, Mercutio knows it's a condemnation. It's not 'I hate you', or a 'I never want to see you again', but all the same, it's confusion and rejection and sternness all at once and that's worse than if Romeo had said he hated Mercutio, had punched him or had left him to have his anxiety attack by himself. But he  _ hadn't _ . "Don't."

With that, Romeo pushes himself out of the window, leaving Mercutio in his bedroom. And Mercutio stares out the window and, in a brief moment of what could be considered insanity, he wonders: why does he always see Romeo leave through windows these days?

* * *

His first instinct is to return to his own room, to regroup, but fear shoots up his spine when he thinks of the threats that Tybalt gave. Mercutio doesn't know if he'll follow through with them, or exactly how much he knows, but the fear of it alone is enough to keep him scarce. Instead, he decides to go to the only person he ever seems to go to for these kinds of situations: Benvolio. 

He creeps through the Montague mansion, knowing that certainly, regardless of his family's good standing with the Montague's, he would be thought of as trespassing. One rule of the Montague family: don't invite anyone over that isn't a Montague. Luckily, their little trio has never been one for rules, so Mercutio knows the path to Benvolio's room: up the staircase, through the hallway to the right, turn right again, three doors down and to the left. He scarcely breathes as he raps his knuckles lightly on Benvolio's door. Benvolio demonstrates the psychic ability that Mercutio always swears he has when he swings the door open a fraction of a second after he knocks.

Benvolio blinks a few times before his face turns sheet white, as if he had seen a ghost. He whispers, concern dripping in his tone, "What happened to you?"

Mercutio grins, all fake and loose-lipped, before slipping around Benvolio and into his room. He immediately drops down onto the other boy's bed, a soft groan echoing out of him as he realizes just how exhausted he feels. The day felt as if had gone on for centuries, and he felt as if the week would go on for much longer. He sees Benvolio slowly approach out of the corner of his eye, and Mercutio decides to just continue splaying open his heart, cutting into it with every knife in his arsenal. He speaks up, tone attempting jovial but instead settling somewhere between pitiful and gut-wrenching, "Romeo knows."

He sees Benvolio's eyebrows furrow. "Knows…?"

Mercutio tilts his head towards Benvolio and gives him a deadpan stare. Benvolio's eyes suddenly grow the size of saucers, and he opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. They stare at each other for a few minutes before Benvolio finally coughs, and finds his words. "How did he… react?"

Turning his head back up towards the ceiling, Mercutio whispers back, "He doesn't want anything to do with me."

Benvolio is suddenly on his knees next to the bed. "What?"

"Well, he didn't say it in so many words." Mercutio sniffles. "But… god, Benvolio, you didn't see his face."

Benvolio stays silent, and Mercutio thinks he relates: what, exactly, do you say to that? Mercutio's mouth, however, doesn't stop. "He's getting married, Benvolio. To Juliet.

"_What_?"

"It's- he confirmed it to me. He said they were getting married. And he- he wasn't even going to tell us before it happened. He was just, was just going to sneak off, and not let us know, and I-" Mercutio's chest heaves, and he's sobbing, silently but desperately choking on the emotion clogged in his throat. There's something in him that feels so gross, so deeply wrong, and he wants to tear inside himself and take it out. Romeo was right, why couldn't he just be happy for him? Why couldn't he just accept what he had? Why did he have to fall in love with _Romeo fucking Montague?_

Benvolio places his hand in Mercutio's and Mercutio squeezes until he can barely feel his hand, until Benvolio's hand is probably in pain, but neither of them move away. They stay there, and Benvolio lets Mercutio sob, lets him live in his pain for a moment, mourning the loss of something that had been an essential part of who he was for years. It's scary how quickly it shattered beneath him, caused by something as simple as his own stupidity and inability to shut up for two seconds. So maybe he deserves the pain, and maybe he should suffer. He doesn't know anymore. He doesn't know if he's sure of anything.

Eventually, Benvolio asks, tone gentle, "Is Romeo still in his room?"

"No. He left." Mercutio hiccups. "He… he said he was going to…" Mercutio bolts up in the bed. "Shit, he said he was going to find Tybalt."

Benvolio makes a pained noise and rests his head on the bed, seeming to take a few deep breaths before looking back up. "Okay, okay, we can find him. That's fine. But Mercutio…"

"What?"

In the moonlight shining through the window, Benvolio's face looks infinitely soft, no harsh edges or curves. His expression flits between understanding and pain, which flags confusion in the back of Mercutio's mind. Benvolio, however, doesn't seem to notice, and instead, says, "You're going to make it through this."

As a reflex, Mercutio shakes his head. "You don't know that. You don't know how long this has just been… bubbling under the surface. And now it's out, and I… I can't."

"Mercutio, trust me. You can." Benvolio squeezes his hand. "As someone who's done it, you'll make it through this."

Mercutio makes a confused noise and Benvolio shrugs one shoulder. "You don't know everything about me."

They sit there for a few minutes, Mercutio pondering information both new and old, before he sighs. "I just… wish I could take it back."

"Well, you can't do that." Benvolio lets go of his hand. "But you know what you can do?"

"What?"

"Go find Romeo, and show him you're still his best friend, and that you won't abandon him."

Mercutio chews at his bottom lip. "Even if he doesn't want anything to do with me?"

Benvolio responds with a kind smile, but his eyes echo a sort of wisdom that seems centuries old to Mercutio. He feels, for moment, like he's missing something important. "Especially if he doesn't want anything to do with you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Poor Mercutio. When will he catch a break?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Kudos & Comments are greatly appreciated.


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